Even the most casual student of anatomy will realize that the dotted lines and the directions "Fold Here" are not a part of February cover girl Norma Bauer's genetic inheritance, but they do serve to illustrate our continuing interest in the gatefold concept, and even in expanding on it. So, in addition to this month's lovely Playmate, Linda Forsythe (no dotted lines or "Fold Here" on her), we offer for your perusal How Other Magazines Would Photograph a Playmate, a collection of editorial and pictorial hints to a variety of national journals, with shootings done by the Playboy staff photographers pictured in a group below.
Playboy, February, 1970, Vol. 17, No. 2. Published monthly by HMH Publishing Co. Inc., Playboy Building, 919 N. Michigan Ave., Chicago, Illinois 60611. Subscriptions: In the U. S., its possessions and Canada, $24 for three years, $18 for two years, $10 for one year. Elsewhere add $2 per year for foreign postage. Allow 30 days for new subscriptions and renewals. Change of address: Send both old and new addresses to Playboy. Playboy building, 919 N. Michigan Ave., Chicago, Illinois 60611, and allow 30 days for change. Advertising: Howard W. Lederer, advertising director; Jules Kase, Joseph Guenther, Associate Advertising Managers, 405 Park Ave., New York, New York 10022, Mu 8.3030; Sherman Keats. Chicago Manager, 919 N. Michigan Ave., Chicago, Illinois 60611, Mi 2--1000; Detroit, Robert A. Mc Kenzie, Manager, 2990 west grand Boulevard, Tr 5--7250; Los Angeles, Stanley L. Perkins, Manager, 8721 Beverly Boulevard, Ol 2--8790; San Francisco. Robert E. Stephens, Manager, 110 Sutter Street, 434--2675; Southeastern Representative, Pirine & Brown, 3108 Piedmont Rd., N. E., Atlanta, Ga. 30305, 233--6729.
Architect Max Frisch said once that technology was just a way of organizing the universe so that man wouldn't have to experience it. That can be the case--with automobiles replacing legs, television cameras replacing eyes, computers, finally, replacing man's memory--but it doesn't have to be. If you work at it, if you pay attention, you can turn on instead of off through technology. The Whole Earth Catalog has become an underground best seller (30,000 copies in print) exactly because that's what it offers: several thousand ways to get back in touch with our planet and with ourselves. This mammoth mail-order compendium can connect you with such things as seeds, power tools, other catalogs, geodesic domes, do-it-yourself books, walking shoes, computers, lab equipment, tape recorders, weather maps, auto-repair manuals, house plans, electrical supplies, source books, idea books, posters, cameras, films, film-making instructions, guitars--and so much more that this list only begins to indicate the scope of the book. The Whole Earth Catalog can put you through to perhaps 10,000 bits of paraphernalia--some ordinary, some extraordinary, but all practical, fascinating or simply fun. Gathered together in one place, they provide a new, simple and straightforward way of looking at--and, if you decide to put them to use, of coping with--an increasingly complicated technological world.
Former SNCC worker, a founder of the Yippies, cultural revolutionary (with 40 arrests so far) and a defendant in the Chicago conspiracy trial, Abbie Hoffman has had a crowded life. Occasionally, he snatches time to write books. Woodstock Nation (Random House) was assembled in five days as Hoffman, "high on adrenaline, excitement, no sleep, rock music and pot," rapped on the floor of his publisher's office. He characterizes the result as a "Talk-Rock Album," but actually, it's a cascade of photographs and drawings as well as text in multicolored type and what could be called kinetic make-up. The ostensible focus is the mammoth rock festival at Bethel last summer, where Hoffman set up an ad hoc "hospital" for those who were coming down from bad acid trips. Finally, however, the therapist himself experienced a frightening bummer and needed attention. In between his often manic reports on Bethel, there are flashbacks to his boyhood, to his multiple assaults against the "Pig Nation" immediately before Bethel, along with speculations about the future--his and that of "the nation" of young people represented at that festival. It's difficult to get a clear perspective on Abbie in this whirlwind of impressions, but he isn't quite sure of his directions, either. He does make clear that he has turned off politics and now opts for cultural revolution, which "requires people to change the way they live and act in the revolution rather than passing judgments on how the other folks are proceeding. The cultural view creates outlaws; politics breeds organizers." For all its defiance, Woodstock Nation is an essentially poignant odyssey. Hoffman has had the courage of his kaleidoscopic convictions, but the question that keeps assaulting him is whether he is Moses or Don Quixote.
The Damned is a work of dazzling virtuosity by Italy's Luchino Visconti, whose last comparable effort was The Leopard. In this dark investigation of the military-industrial power structure that forged Germany's blueprint for disaster under Hitler, Visconti casts a bitter eye on the predatory members of a munitions-making dynasty. (Though the name here is Essenbeck, it is worth noting that the Krupp family's holdings included the vast steelworks at Essen.) Beginning with a birthday dinner in the baronial Essenbeck mansion on the night of the Reichstag fire, the film formally, almost ritualistically, introduces the gallery of killers, perverts, cowards and compromisers whose treachery provides dynamite for Visconti's microcosm of an entire nation slipping into an abyss. Most poisonous of the lot, all of whom bear watching, is the 40ish blonde baroness (played with devastating intelligence and skill by Ingrid Thulin, of Ingmar Bergman's celebrated acting stable), who communicates her lust for power in mouth-to-mouth meetings with the plant's ambitious executive director (Dirk Bogarde, up to his usual high standard but sounding like odd man out in an English-speaking company full of thick Teutonic accents). Manipulated by a diabolical cousin with leverage in the SS, the baroness' effete son and heir turns out to be a revelation to the family and to the film itself. As played by young Helmut Berger, the weakling Martin is a stunning embodiment of Hitler's Hegelian theme that "Personal morals are dead...we are an elite society where everything is permissible." Thus, the family's number-one son, who first appears in drag singing a cabaret song a la Dietrich, casts off sexual importence and goes in for child molestation, drug addiction and, finally--in a scene of rich, vindictive decadence--beds down with Mother. As meticulously stylized as a Wagnerian opera, even photographed in a surrealistically lit re-creation of German Sturm und Drang, circa 1933, this two-and-a-half-hour movie was made to be seen and seen again.
Far from being spoiled by success, Arlo Guthrie comes across more real all the time, as evidenced by Running Down the Road (Reprise; also available on stereo tape). Backed by a softly swinging electric combo, Arlo gets into Southwestern rock on such items as his father's Oklahoma Hills and his own Wheel of Fortune, on which he reveals an uncanny resemblance to the late Buddy Holly.
Mart Crowley's The Boys in the Band signaled the first mass exposure of homosexual theater. Sadly, from current samplings of the gay genre, the trend is down. Although there are glimmers of the Boys' bitchy wit and personal desperation in such plays as And Puppy Dog Tails and Fortune and Men's Eyes, there are much greater gobs of sentimentality and melodrama. It is almost as if homosexual theater had set out to repeat the worst mistakes of the straights. Puppy Dog, the first play by young David Gaard, is a modest but not quite disarming valentine to the homosexual life--all sugar and no spice. It brings to mind Mart Crowley's line: "Show me a happy homosexual and I'll show you a gay corpse." The paraphrase might be, "Show me a play about happy homosexuals and I'll show you a play corpse." There is little conflict, tension or humor. Puppy Dog concerns a heterosexual who has had a passing childhood fancy for his high school buddy and, years later, looks him up in New York. The buddy is now queer, although not as blatantly so as his current friends. Will the backward hetero never notice the faggotry around him? The play is thin and uneventful, except for some occasional nudity and male-to-male nuzzling. But even that manages to be inoffensive--one big reason why it fails as a dramatic work. At the Bouwerie Lane, 330 Bowery. In contrast, Fortune and Men's Eyes is harsh, ham-handed, heavy-breathing--and compromising. Director Sal Mineo's production is a free adaptation of John Herbert's play about how prisons turn erring youngsters into hardened homosexuals; and the original version, which had a moderate run off-Broadway a few seasons ago, was never very good. It was too pat: The young innocent, Smitty, too quickly became king of the jungle, and his bunkmates were largely stereotypes. But for at least one act, there were some colorful and humorous attempts at character shading. This time around, Mineo has cut to the action. A male rape scene that took place offstage in the original happens onstage in the nude. But as male rape scenes go, this one is well staged and well acted. Since the play opened, a defecation scene has been mercifully eliminated, but a masturbation sequence has been retained at the finale. Yet, for all its artificially charged atmosphere, Fortune remains fairly tame stuff. When one of the convicts cries, "I'm stuck in this filthy, stinking hellhole," one wonders what hellhole. Except for that rape, there's not as much grime as in any of Cagney's old prison blocks, nor anywhere near as much stark reality as in Kenneth Brown's play The Brig. At Stage 73, 321 East 73rd Street.
Not only have my girl and I enjoyed each other fully during the past six months but our relationship is accepted by both sets of parents and, consequently, is relatively guilt-free. For these reasons, as well as my deep personal feelings, I am unable to understand her sudden insistence on regressing to a point where we don't exchange any intimacies and also date others. What would make someone change so quickly?--D. R., Walla Walla, Washington.
Until someone accidentally comes up with the great American novel, the only truly unique contribution to belles-lettres made by Americans will continue to be the corporate expense account. Our talent for the art is unsurpassed--even though writing this kind of autobiography leaves many of us feeling vaguely un-American. The tale we tell may be painfully true, but the concept of eating, sleeping and forgetting the cares of the day at no expense to oneself seems immoral;it grates against the closet puritan lurking in all of us.
As provocative a pair of agents provocateurs as devoted spy-flick fans could desire, Bibi Andersson (left) and Barbara Parkins are two prime reasons why director John Huston's upcoming espionage epic, The Kremlin Letter, should be classified a high-priority item among moviegoers intrigued by international skulduggery. In making the Huston film, Stockholm-based Bibi--who has been a rave-noticed star in-eight of Ingmar Bergman's masterworks--accepted a rare movie role outside her homeland. An alumna of video's Peyton Place, Canadian-born Barbara, the other half of the picture's danger-prone distaff duo, makes us doubly aware that this twosome warrants close surveillance.
While Waiting for his Friends, the Armours, to come and bear him to his tomb, the Reverend Mr. Yost watched himself on Merv Griffin. He was the last guest. The producer had brought him on with less than five minutes to go; and now, as Yost watched in his apartment with Magdalena, his pregnant cat, it was three minutes to one. Aliza Kashi was seated to his right and Marty Allen shared the desk with Merv Griffin.
Checking out their dates' choice of finery found in Chicago's latest ladies' boutique, Garage, these admiring gentlemen sport shaped suits that reflect today's fashion permissiveness. The man in the dark suit maintains a wardrobe viewpoint that's based on well-tailored traditionalism: He prefers a wool single-breasted pin-striped two-button suit. by Jean Louis for Hart Schaffner & Marx, about $175; a variegated-striped cotton shirt, by Hathaway, $16; wide-striped silk tie. by Bill Miller for the Village Squire, $7.50; and moc-toed burnished-leather slip-ons with concealed monk strap, by Renegades, $32. His more adventurously garbed confrere has chosen a single-breasted wool twill two-button suit with ultrawide lapels and slanted flap pockets, designed by Roland Meledandri, $225, cotton Swiss-made shirt with long-pointed collar, $22.50, solid-color silk tie, designed by Ralph Lauren for Polo, $12.50, and imported broad-toed two-eyelet shoes, $45, all from Ultimo.
In Three Short Decades between now and turn of the next millennium, million of psychologically normal people will experience an abrupt collision with the future. Affluent, educated citizens of the world's richest and most technically advanced nations, they will fall victim to tomorow's most menacing malady: the disease of change. Unable to keep up with the supercharged pace of change, brought to the edge of breakdown by incessant demands to adapt to adapt to novelty, many will plunge into future shock. For them, the future will have arrived too soon.
Today's Houseyacht is the greatest getaway craft for couples since the ark. Offering the best of the two worlds of land and water, today's fast-moving, splendidly appointed, seaworthy pleasure domes are a far cry from the houseboats of yore, those flat-bottomed, shanty-topped barges that drifted with the currents, carrying migrants South and West on the Ohio and Mississippi rivers. What proud houseyacht captain would stand for such prosaic nomenclature as houseboat when he has under him a sleek vessel capable of cruising at 20 miles an hour and up--in luxury and with the greatest of ease? Such carelessness with words would be grounds for (text continued on page 105) keelhauling. These nautical fun-and-sum pads can ply the water with far greater versatility than bigger and more expensive yachts or sailing ships and, foot for foot, with far greater comfort. They can go wherever there is navigable water--not only in rough seas, because of their high freeboards and broad beams, but also through shallow waters--and sometimes right up to secluded beaches, because of their shallow drafts. The largest of the three houseyachts that transported Playboy's pleasure seekers drew slightly less than four feet.
"It's been great growing up right next door to New York City," says 19-year-old Linda Forsythe, "because Manhattan is the most exciting place to be; it's ideal for single people. But you couldn't give me enough money to live there the rest of my life; I'm too spoiled by the quietness--and cleanness--of home." Hailing from Weehawken, New Jersey, this American beauty describes herself as a home-grown product of the Garden State. "But I'm no flower child," she points out, "and I have little sympathy for the hippies and none for the revolutionaries. Sure, my generation is dissatisfied; and we're more aware, perhaps, than our parents were at our age. But those in a position to change the course of this country are more likely to listen to a well-reasoned approach from young people who aren't wrecking property or tying up traffic and campuses with protests that often turn out to be violent. The kids making all this noise are children, and if the world gets into their hands now, they'll destroy it. Drastic changes--if they're to be constructive--take time; it can't happen all at once. I'm not always happy with the status quo, but I'm not about to drop out or start marching in the streets. I'm still a kid, too, and I have too much to learn." Linda believes in working to change the system from within and--practicing what she preaches--will use her Playmate fee to further her career ambition to be a social worker. When we talked with her, she was preparing to leave the family homestead and move to Manhattan. "The courses I need," she told us, "are available at New York University, which has an excellent graduate school in this field. I feel very strongly about doing social work, especially with children. Even though I hope to have my own someday, I'd like to adopt a child, too. There are so many kids who have no one; this world's going to be in their hands, eventually, and it's up to us to help them. Meantime, I'm going to work and study--and play. So many people don't seem to know how to enjoy life. Maybe I don't, either, but I'm sure having all kinds of fun trying."
Dachau, Germany, is best known as the locale where thousands of Jews were tortured, killed and burned by their Nazi captors. Some of these Nazis futilely pleaded at the post-War Nuremberg trials that they had done their evil not from wicked hearts but because they had been ordered to do so.
Sex presents endless possibilities for joy, fulfillment, tenderness and just plain fun--but it can also end with your swimming desperately for shore amid the shattered debris of a capsized pleasure barge. While the voyage can frequently be one of fair weather and full sails, almost certainly you have occasionally sailed too close to the rocks and found yourself in the same difficulties as every master navigator before you. Or, as Sigmund Freud plaintively put it, "The great question that has never been answered, and which I have not yet been able to answer despite my 30 years of research into the feminine soul, is: What does a woman want?"
For the Audiophile with an abiding interest in global goings on, there's fascinating fare awaiting his listening pleasure on the busy bands of today's short-wave radios. Moscow and Melbourne, London and Lisbon, Prague and paris are saturating the air with an intriguing diversity of news, views and features. These far-flung transmissions provide a tasty supplement to local AM and FM programing, and they're now remarkably easy to pick up. Today's transistorized short-wave receivers capture distant stations with clarity and power. If you haven't yet tuned in to the world, it's time to give it a try. There's nothing like hearing Radio Havana reporting on a highjacked plane or the BBC discoursing on a Parliamentary crisis to fully appreciate the impact of having tomorrow's headlines at your finger tips. And catching a "live" performance of Amsterdam's famed Concertgebouw Orchestra is an aesthetic experience of the first magnitude.
It is an easy 15 hours of mountain driving from Salzburg's Grosses Festspielhaus (altitude 1350 feet), where Bach's Christmas Oratorio is swelling toward intermission, to St. Niklaus, Switzerland, where the skier boards a train that climbs toward Zermatt, where he carries his skis a mile and a quarter, ascends by a series of three cable cars to the Matterhorn's Theodul glacier and arrives at the Trockener Steg shelter (altitude 10,000 feet). There is a nice balance in going directly from the Festspielhaus coat rack to Zermatt; the amateur at glacier skiing and cross-country Bach discovers that his two passions mortify the flesh in similar ways.
It's no secret that our Playmate of the Month is one of Playboy's most appealing and popular features. The fact that hundreds of girls each year vie for an appearance in one of our dozen issues is an indication of the high regard in which Playmatehood is held. Our Playmates have, in fact, become an American institution to rank with Betsy Ross and the flag--but, unlike Betsy, they've managed to do so without a single stitch. Always willing to share our bounty, we think it would be an excellent idea if other popular periodicals began running their own versions of our foldout feature. To encourage a variety of them to enter the gatefold field, we've projected some thoughts on how famous publications such as Fortune, National Geographic, Life and Consumer Reports might present a Playmate who reflected the magazine's special interests. Granted, Spat Makers' Monthly or the Wrecking-Ball Digest have some problems coming up with an appropriate Miss of the Month; but for most, the addition of a dishabilled damsel should boost circulation--if not that of the magazines, then at least that of their readers.
This Malevolent story begins with a serene and beautiful painting. It was called Going Up River and it was painted by Chang Tse-tuan of the Sun dynasty; in it, he portrayed the splendors of K'ai-feng-Fu, a city that had been destroyed by the Kin Tartars long ago, in 1127. But the very beauty of that picture produced not only avarice, treachery and murder but also one of the most lecherous books ever written.
For six years, he was known not for his acting ability, which is large enough to match his six-foot, three-inch frame, but for his dubious distinction as the unsuccessful husband of singer Barbra Streisand. Happily, Elliot Gould has finally emerged at 31--in such candidly contemporary flicks as Bob & Carol & Ted & Alice and Getting Straight--as one of the gifted young male stars who are launching a new era of creativity in Hollywood. It's been a while coming for Gould, who learned to tap-dance as a child in his native Brooklyn, spent much of his youth auditioning for stage roles, lasted one full week at Columbia University and worked as a chorus boy before he secured--at 23--the lead role in the Broadway show I Can Get It for You Wholesale. His anemic salary for that production was balanced by the presence of a bit player with an unforgettable voice, who soon became his paramour and, in 1963, his wife; by last spring, when they separated, Streisand had become a superstar and Gould was still a promising unknown with a long list of credits: He had toured with Liza Minnelli in The Fantasticks and with Shelley Winters in Luv, co-starred with Carol Burnett in a TV special and made his screen debut in The Night They Raided Minsky's. His luck changed when Mike Frankovich offered him a part in B & C & T & A. By the end of the year, he had played a dovish Army surgeon in M.A.S.H. and a dirty-book writer in Move. In between, he filmed Getting Straight, in which he portrays a close-to-30, uptight academic whose affair with a student helps him discover himself personally and politically; the energetic and high-strung Gould, who visits a shrink and is admittedly still searching for his own identity, had no trouble assimilating the part. In the future, though, what with his acting and his new production company (on tap are film versions of Bernard Malamud's The Assistant and Jules Feiffer's Little Murders), it appears that Gould will have less time--and, we trust, less need--for such clinical soul-searching.
"It's nonsense to compare me with Howard Hughes," insists energetic entrepreneur Kirk Kerkorian. "I'm a peashooter and he's a shotgun." Kerkorian's modesty is misplaced in some respects; it's becoming difficult to tell the difference between the two Las Vegas landlords. In 1969 alone, Kerkorian came up with the cash to open Nevada's largest hotel and gambling casino--the 1512-room International--as well as to acquire a plurality of the stock in both Western Airlines and Metro-Goldwyn-Mayer Studios. His diversified business interests match his background: The son of Armenian immigrants, he was born in California's San Joaquin Valley in 1917. To aid his destitute family, he dropped out of school in the eighth grade and went to work in a logging camp for $30 a month. During the variety of ventures he pursued over the next few years--from owning a gas station to installing heaters in suburban homes--Kerkorian discovered the glories of aviation. For some time thereafter, every extra cent he earned went for flying lessons. By World War Two, he was a civilian flight instructor with the Army Air Corps and--while the fighting raged--he ferried military aircraft across the Atlantic for Britain's Royal Air Force. At War's end, he sank his savings (about $12,000) into a small airline firm, and military contracts during the Korean War greatly expanded his business. He sold the company to Studebaker in 1962, but bought it back soon thereafter for a fat net profit. He unloaded it again in 1968 for $90,000,000 in stock, then sold the same shares for $108,000,000 last year. Many similar speculations have boosted Kerkorian's assets to over $275,000,000. He visualizes Vegas as the future entertainment center of the world and has built a $500,000 home in the desert spa; Kerkorian also owns a 147-foot yacht, but he rarely has the leisure to enjoy either. Instead, to expedite his world-wide operations, Kerkorian has, like Hugh Hefner, acquired his own DC-9 jet liner. Without doubt, he's got a flying start on his second quarter billion.
"Although it is not yet clearly in focus, the shadow of the swastika is visible in America today," says William Kunstler, 50, the nation's pre-eminent defense lawyer in civil liberties cases. "Our Government fears and hates radical college students, the poor and the black, because they make us question the validity of our economic and political systems," he says. "And the fact that Attorney General John Mitchell now wants the power to wire-tap anyone he defines as a threat to our national interest shows how far we've advanced toward fascism." Kunstler, attorney for Rennie Davis and David Dellinger--two of the original "Chicago eight" accused of conspiracy to incite mob violence during the 1968 Democratic Convention--was a late-comer to the role of public defender. After graduation from Yale University in 1941, the native New Yorker joined the Army as a private, won a Bronze Star during World War Two and emerged from the Service as a major in 1946. With his GI Bill funds and the income from approximately 500 book reviews for a variety of publications, Kunstler put himself through Columbia Law School. A year later, he joined his brother's law firm and practiced until he was 41. "In 1961," he says, "the American Civil Liberties Union asked me to go to Jackson, Mississippi, and help a local black lawyer defend freedom riders. When I got to Jackson, I saw five people hauled off an incoming Greyhound bus and thrown into jail. It changed my life." Since then, Kunstler has defended such controversial clients as the late Dr. Martin Luther King. Jack Ruby, Stokely Carmichael and H. Rap Brown. He plans to continue as a defense attorney in what he feels are essentially political trials. "I don't swallow all the rhetoric or tactics of my clients, but I feel that their objectives are a free and healthy society. I believe that by pursuing justice in these cases, I will have justified my existence." Those who agree with Kunstler would hasten to add that he may, by so doing, help justify our nation's existence as well.